The last Dutchess

The Dutchess behind the curtain.

Point of view: the Dutchess.

As I hang here on the wall, after being painted by the hands of Pandolf, tucked away behind a curtain I am trying my hardest not to be feeling awfully alone. Reminiscing though is hard to avoid, so I try to remember the good times, most of the time.

The years went by so fast and I never got to experience life to the fullest, with the man I loved, the Duke. I was a beautiful woman with a special glow, I was told, and that was what ended my life. My husband the Duke always felt I had a heart that was too soon made glad and that I was to easily impressed by everyone I looked upon. I was fascinated by other people, but I never, till the end loved anyone else but the Duke. He did not share my fascination and would sometimes end up him showing a glimpse of jealousy, which I should have reacted upon instead of letting it slide. The Duke never thought I cared much for his nine-hundred-year-old-name, because I was friendly towards other men and he was right, it was not his name I fell in love with, but him with or without his title. He believed he was to proud to stoop for such trifling, but today my portrait is covered with a curtain so only I can smile for him, whenever he walks past the portrait of me he had painted before he sent me away. He was different from other men I had ever met and that was what I fell for, but time changes people for better or for worse. Even though, I know he loved me otherwise I would not still be in his life and in spite of everything I will love him forever even though he ended my life and as long as he looks at me I will smile my prettiest smile and the feeling of loneliness will disappear for a moment.

The Last Duchess - The Emissary

Ferrara showed us into the living room. On the wall was a single painting. It was a painting of a woman. A beautiful woman. As I sat down to discuss the terms of his marriage to his new duchess he pointed to the picture and said, “That is the last duchess. Frà Pandolf worked busily on it and now here she is.” She looked so young and vibrant. It was hard to imagine how she could die young. “She was flattered too easily though. “ Then he told me how she had a flirty nature that even showed in the presence of Frà Pandolf. “It was obvious to everyone. All could see that the smiles she send other men. They should have been for me. But they were not reserved just for me.” He seemed quite upset with his former wife. Quite angry actually. “A single command and all the smiles stopped. She never appreciated the traditions that comes with the name I gave her.” Did Ferrara have anything to do with his wife’s untimely death? As he spoke of her it seemed likely. I could not stop thinking about it. But there was nothing I could do about it. Only wonder if he would do it to his next wife as well. As we went down below I understood Ferrara’s intentions. “Look at Neptune taming the sea horse. It is said to be a rarity but I had it cast in bronze.” I was convinced that Ferrara was a man that would dispose of no means to get his way. Not with materialistic object nor with people.

Reaction of the last duchess

Why is it you exhibit a dead woman's loneliness?
Look at you - your gaze scratching on the surface
as always.
Now there is nothing more behind my smile.
I am smooth, my edges polished.
Still it is as if Fra Pandolf stood between us.
My eyes searching yours, blaze down on him who can't handle it.
He drew my mouth too full as if he saw those useless words resting on my lips.
You never cared to listen.
And what then seemed to you like a sin was nothing but the expression of empathy.
How would you know?
You should have been a man of faith then you would have understood my passion.
I wonder how you dealt with death and grief.

Having an audience should be reason enough to act well.

That is it. No more backward glances.
Therefore I do not pity the loss of one dimension.

My Last Duchess- Rewritten for the Peasant

We all know she was a trophy wife. Sometimes I hear the other maids talking about the new one. Wondering if she'll be harsh like number three or gentle like number six. We've given up thinking that they'll ever be another Mary.

Mary was the first. The loveliest, kindest lady we'd ever met. She's the one that ruined the master after she died. His honest smile was replaced with the sardonic grin.

Never mind that. My duty now is to clean the latest Ms. Duchess' portrait. Number seven. Each fortnight I take the feather duster to her oil canvas. One must be careful not to scratch the surface, to blemish her rosy cheeks, or rip her satin gown would be most dangerous. The master would know.

It's not that he held her in any sort of high regard, but her only virtue (if you want to call it that) was her beautiful skin and lovely gowns. I know that's not the only reason, though.

He doesn't know I was there that night.

The master wishes to preserve her in portrait in hopes to erase the image of her mangled, bloody body that he hid in the crypts.

My Last Duchess - Rewritten

The other day I experienced the oddest encounter with a Duke at his home. This is what happened:

He walked me down the hall, the Duke – with his squared shoulders in place and an impatient pace in his steps, though with a slight anticipating undertone. Down a darkened corridor we went – why was it so dark, I remember thinking. Only a dim light at the end of the long corridor I was able to see. Went past door after door after door – darkened wooden doors.

At the end of the hall he stopped, sighed and looked at me as to ask me if I was ready. Ready for what, I thought, because I had not got the slightest clue as to what I was about to see. Another sculpture perhaps – I had seen the extensive art collection when I walked through the door into the hall, but I could not figure out what kind of art he felt the need to hide away at the end of a darkened corridor with only one dim light.

I moved further down the corridor and went to stand beside him – a veil of some sort was hanging on the wall hiding something – a frame perhaps. He sighed again, but this time with a hint of pride in his face. So this was something he was proud of I thought and my curiosity awakened and I could now not wait to see what was hidden behind the veil.

He indicated for me to take a step back, not far back, but just so that I would be able to see what was behind the veil and close enough so I would not have to squint. With that he drew the veil to the side and I could then see the Duchess staring back at me. It was not a large portrait, but large enough for me to take a step back by the intensity of it – the eyes of the duchess were so intense that I could not help but feel that there was more to the story of the portrait that I was immediately led on from the Duke.

After staring at the portrait for no more than ten seconds the Duke spoke up for the first time since I entered the home no more than seven minutes ago. “My late wife, the Duchess”. I could feel the coldness in his words and a shiver ran down my spine, because my senses had been proved right – something about the portrait had something hidden.

The Duke then began to talk about his late wife and I could hear the bitterness in his tone when talking about her. His possessive nature shone through his speech and I was pretty sure that something about her death would soon come to the surface – a surface that was so close now and I realised that it never really had been that far from the surface before and the shiver that ran down my spine before spread to the rest of the body and I took yet another small step back from the portrait.

When the Duke then began talking about how she never smiled her beautiful smile for only him and not others, I was completely sure of my assumptions. The Duke had killed his wife in cold blooded murder, and he now had a portrait of her hanging on his wall, with a smile so big that was only for him and not others. On top of that I learned that it was the man with whom the Duchess was in love with who had painted the portrait and that only made the experience more surreal to me.

I could now clearly see the possessive nature of Duke – it shone out of him. He now began telling the tale of how he did not like how she, in his mind did not have much respect for him as a nobleman, as he felt that she should respect the family name. She should also have been caring for him more than any other thing and not have had her eyes wander other place – which was what lead to her death.

After revealing what displeased him about his late wife, he went on to tell a tale of his other arts in the house and not long after that, I was able to walk from the home of the Duke only remembering the surreal experience it was to look into the intense eyes of the Duke’s Last Duchess.

My dying thoughts

I feared him, the man you sent for me!

Why was I to be, your latest mystery?

I smiled, I laughed, I thought myself a good wife of thee

What dishonour did I cast, since death came upon me?

Your jealousy and rage lead to my end

Who made you the boss of all women?

Now, my name is but a whisper

Spoken by any justified listener